


Aw, Telepathy, No

by 1000_directions, ClaraxBarton, HelenaMadsox, Nny, RammBook



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Accidental Telepathy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Deaf Clint Barton, Folklore, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Winterhawk Round Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 09:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17895602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaMadsox/pseuds/HelenaMadsox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RammBook/pseuds/RammBook
Summary: “No. Wait, hey, how do you break a curse?”Steve narrows his eyes. “Is this hypothetical, or are you cursed?”“Hypothetical.” Sort of. Technically.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With incredible art by [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton) and fantastic and insightful beta reading by [LittleLivingLake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLivingLake/pseuds/LittleLivingLake)

Clint climbs up into the darkness of the Big Top, Tony's showboating voice filling the tent and drawing all the assholes in. The splintering wood against his palms is disconcertingly familiar in the way that dreams are, and memories; he half expects to look around and see Barney climbing almost beside him - a little lower, a little slower, a little resentful of every damn inch. 

Steve says something - deep, resonant, still a little too far away to pick up with these aids. Tony's an amazing engineer, but there's gonna be some sacrifice when you're looking to combine hearing aids and comms. When the Ringmaster answers it's even harder to make out, his voice weaselly and weak in the vastness of the space they're in. It makes Clint shrink in on himself a little, diminished by realizing his childhood idol is so goddamn _small_. 

"In position, Hawkeye?" 

"Yeah, gimme a sec," he answers, his voice too low for him to hear, even though he knows the throat mic's gonna pick it up. "Or maybe thirty." 

"No problem, he says." Bucky's voice is a little sarcastic, a little amused. "Gimme a challenge, he says." 

"Hey, no one at ground-level gets to criticize me," Clint answers, and there's a soft throaty laugh from Natasha. 

"It's probably a good idea to limit the number of critics," she says, and then, from just behind him, another voice speaks. 

"Does that mean I get a shot?" 

"Fuck!" 

Clint hauls himself onto the platform that serves the high wire, spinning himself around just as soon as he's stable. Even for the Circus of Crime, this is weird - hanging from the huge poles that hold up the tent, a cage dangles from a thick cable, putting Clint just about at eye-level with the - the _thing_ that crouches inside. He's hesitant to call it a person, 'cause it's tiny and shrivelled and ancient to a degree that seems impossible. Calling it a ‘creature’, though - that just seems rude. Something about the - person, he's gonna go with person - something about their expression suggests they’re aware of his internal conflict, and amused by it. Their eyes are as old as their hunched form, older maybe, dark and deep and holding a thousand secrets, and Clint tips a little forward without even noticing he's - 

"Clint?" 

" _Barton_." 

It's Bucky's voice that snaps him out of it, and he shakes his head like he's waking. 

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, I'm fine. In position." He fiddles with the right-hand aid, switching it over to receiving only, and tips his head to one side, regarding the person curiously. 

"You're a prisoner?" he asks, and the person spreads their wrinkled hands demonstratively, only able to stretch their arms to about half their length. Clint nods decisively and considers the cage for a moment, before figuring the best way to do this is gonna be from above. 

"Stand by for the signal," Natasha murmurs in his ear, all business, and Clint figures he's gonna have to do this fast; he regards the distance for a second, preparing himself, and then makes a leap for it, snagging the cross-bar across the front of the cage without too much effort. He holds on tight as the world lurches sickeningly beneath him, and it takes him a second before he's steady enough to haul himself up top and lay across the bars there. 

The person in the cage has been knocked off their feet, and they're lying crumpled in a corner, braced against the swaying. They look up at Clint, curious. 

"What are you doing?" 

Clint shrugs, fishing a set of picks out of one of the pockets of his vest and anchoring himself with his legs, dangling over the side of the cage until he can reach the huge iron lock. 

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, I figure," he says, and sets to opening the door. 

It's kinda anticlimactic when he gets it; a creak of iron as the door swings open, and then the prisoner hurls themself across to the high wire platform, surprisingly spry for something so old. Clint pulls himself upright, figuring he's best off getting his balance back before he tries the same thing himself. 

The prisoner regards him across the gap between them, thoughtful and wizened and inscrutable. 

"The traditional payment will suffice?" they say, and Clint squints at them. 

"Sure," he says, shrugging, and switches his comms back on again. 

"Still waiting on a signal?" 

Bucky's husky laugh comes over the comms. 

"Some of us just ain't so quick at picking them up," he says, and Clint frowns. 

"I wish I knew what the hell went on in your head, sometimes," he mutters, half under his breath, and looks up, only to see the prisoner's eyes flash a bright pale blue before they vanish into thin air. 

Clint doesn’t realize he’s falling until his back collides with the ground and his brain shakes around in his skull - that’s probably another concussion to add to the list. His field of vision is black and hazy, and blinking isn’t doing much to fix it right now, so he takes one breath in and one breath out and waits for the rest of his body to remember how to work.

Apparently, the traditional payment for rescuing a creepy old dude that’s being held prisoner by a crime syndicate is being drop-kicked from a dangling cage forty feet in the air. That would have been nice to know before accepting.

_Shit, where’d he go? Shit, shit, shit._

It’s Bucky’s voice, but he sounds a little distant and a lot concerned. The audio quality isn’t what he’s used to from the comms, but Tony keeps tweaking the relays. The vulnerability in Bucky’s voice is also unusual, but Clint fell pretty hard; maybe his earpiece was damaged.

Maybe his earpiece was damaged in a way that changes the inflection of Bucky’s voice? Shut up, Clint, stop having a concussion.

He feels fingers on his neck, monitoring his pulse, then two palms to his chest, assessing his breathing symmetry, and he forces a smile onto his face and pretends that his brain doesn’t feel like a puddle of soup that’s trying to leak out his ears. The last thing he wants to do is score himself a long vacation in the medical wing.

_Is he okay? He isn’t moving. He was so high when he fell._

“I’m doing fine,” Clint says, and his vision is finally starting to swim back into something that actually resembles sight. It’s all grey and blurry now, but the edges of shapes are starting to come back, so he’s getting closer. “Thanks for the concern. Did I look cool when I landed?”

_Jesus Christ, what a fucking idiot. Can’t believe I care this much about a dumb idiot._

“Shut up, Bucky,” Clint says. “I stuck that landing.” It takes him another minute to remember that they were actually in the middle of a mission. “This might be a dumb question, but did we catch them?”

_Did we catch them? Of course we didn’t catch them. I was waiting for a signal when some idiot decided that being named after a bird meant he should actually try to fly, and they ran right by me and I didn’t even think about going after them, because... Fuck._

Bucky must have been really worried if he’s telling Clint all this. Either that or Clint hit his head a lot harder than he thought and he’s actually hallucinating this entire conversation. He’ll just add this to his list of surreal Bucky Barnes encounters.

Like the time Bucky sat next to Clint during movie night and immediately fell asleep on his shoulder, and Clint spent all of _Top Gun_ trying not to move a muscle. He missed the whole movie, just watching the way the glow from the television flickered across Bucky’s peaceful face.

Like the time they had a bet about who could take out the most Doombots during a mission, and they ended in a tie with each of them neutralizing eighty-seven _exactly_ , and Bucky smiled at him afterwards in a way that felt so easy and familiar that Clint still remembers it, still knows exactly how the skin around his eyes crinkled, could still picture exactly how many of his teeth were on display.

Like the time Clint had a nightmare and Bucky just knew somehow, and Clint woke up to strong hands holding onto his shoulders, grounding him to reality. And he blinked up at Bucky, who was mouthing the words _it’s okay, you’re okay_ over and over again. And without even meaning to, Clint tilted up his chin and pressed his dry lips to Bucky’s and kissed him, and Bucky kissed him back, gentle and unassuming. And then Bucky left his room, and Clint didn’t sleep at all for the rest of the night, and they never talked about it.

So this is just more of that, Clint supposes.

He feels a set of small hands prodding at his ribs in a way that is both professional and unpleasant. Probably Natasha. That makes at least three sets of hands getting real personal with his anatomy, and Bucky is still the only one talking to him.

“Buy me dinner first,” Clint grumbles. He blinks three more times, and then his sight clicks back into place. He was right, Natasha is the one checking him for broken ribs, almost like she’s met him before or something. Steve is the one monitoring his pulse, and Tony has some kind of gizmo coming out of his Iron Man palms that might be measuring his lung capacity or might just be a bunch of decorative blinking lights. Clint weakly shoos them away and gingerly pushes himself into a sitting position.

Bucky is standing about ten feet away with his arms crossed and a grim look on his face.

Everyone’s lips are moving, but Clint can’t hear any of their voices.

Bucky’s lips aren’t moving at all, but Clint still hears him say, _He’s getting up. He’s getting up, so he’s fine. Jesus, look at his triceps. Shut up. He’s fine. Why does he keep looking at me?_

Clint touches his ear with one cautious hand, and his aids aren’t there.

Aw, telepathy, no.

Before he can really think about it, Natasha kneels before him. 

Wait. Can he read her thoughts too? That would be the best thing ever! He looks at her expectantly but the only thing he can hear is Bucky’s thoughts telling him once again that he's an idiot. As if he doesn't know that. He is a _self-aware_ idiot, thank you very much. 

Unfortunately, that doesn't change the fact that Natasha is waving her fingers in front of his face and he should listen to what she has to say - eh, sign. So, he sighs and looks at Natasha’s hands that let him know that this mission is over and they’re going home. 

Sometimes, it feels like others are thinking he isn't just an idiot but dumb. Just because his brain is kind of damaged (again), doesn't mean it isn't working. Probably. 

Nothing a cold beer and a little bit of Dog Cops can't fix.

***

"Aw, what?" He hopes the doctor didn't say what he thinks she said because then he's fucked. His old hearing aids didn't catch what she said correctly. Right?

"I'm sorry," the woman explains, her expression pitiful. "Drinking alcohol would make your concussion worse, so I'd advise you to stay away from beer, wine and other alcoholic beverages. Basically every drink except water, tea or juice. Coffee is acceptable, but no more than two cups a day." He whines and hangs his head, feeling more miserable now than ever. 

"Can I at least watch TV?" He knows he’s complaining, but he thinks he’s allowed - he just lost his beer-privilege! Hell, he even lost his only friend, coffee. He is _definitely_ allowed to complain. Nat can look at him like she wants to kill him (or herself) all she wants, these things are important. 

"As long as you don't watch it for hours without break, you should be fine," she explains and smiles at him. “Don’t underestimate your condition and don’t overestimate yourself. Generally speaking, just be a little bit more careful than usual.”

"Thank you, Dr Cho. When do you think he can go on missions again?" Nat takes the lead, asking the important questions Clint doesn't care about. He stops paying attention after the first answer, leaving the room without a word. He figures he isn't needed anyway. Contemplating whether or not he should get a snack from the vending machine, he sits down on a chair.

 _There he is,_ Bucky’s thinking voice says. He turns around, seeing Bucky walking towards him.

"Hey, what did the Doc say?" his real voice asks, while Clint is trying to figure out how reality works again. Is he supposed to know what Bucky said? Should he respond? Was that really his real voice or did his brain betray him?

Telling them apart is really difficult; they sound exactly the same. Except that sometimes he is moving his lips and sometimes he isn't. This is about to get confusing really fast. There’s only one thing he can do now. 

And that is to completely avoid the problem altogether.

He sighs and stands up. “I can’t drink my coffee.”

 _That’s your main concern right now?_ Clint hears in his head, while Bucky says “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

He lets his head thunk onto the glass of the vending machine, still trying to work everything out. “It’s just a concussion, nothing to worry about.”

Bucky walks over to him and squints. _Does he have a headache? What is going on with him?_

“I’m fine, okay?” Clint snaps, before wincing and sitting back down, his head in his hands.

“You don’t sound like it,” Bucky says, and the same thing echoes in his mind, with _fucking dumbass_ attached to the end. He kneels down next to where Clint is sitting, and turns his head. “Are you sure you’re alright?” _Because I don’t want to see you hurting like this._

Clint jerks his head back from Bucky’s hand, and then his eyes widen. “I’m sorry, Bucky, just-” He leans back in the chair, so his head touches the wall. “Things have gotten… crazy, since the circus. Everything is so confusing, and I can’t even think normally, and-”

Bucky smiles at him and pats his shoulder. “That’s okay, just… take your time with whatever you need. Don’t get yourself hurt.” _I couldn’t bear to see you hurt._

Clint’s eyes widen, and he mutters something under his breath and stumbles over his feet as he tries to escape the situation.

_Is he alright? What did I do, fuck look at this you fucked it up again, I can’t believe-_

Clint walks out the door and tries to ignore the voice still smoothly sliding through his head.

***

Clint sees Nat walk through the door, but resolutely ignores her as he continues to barely pay attention to Dog Cops. For the past few days, he had been staying in his room as much as possible - coming out only to buy more dog food for Lucky and to eat breakfast before the voice really sets in - and he wasn’t awake enough to realize that he was still trying to hide from the world. 

Bucky’s thoughts are constantly with him. Sure, sometimes he’s feeling groggy and they barely come through, but there’s always something. Bucky’s voice even slips into his dreams, soft and jumbled, but he can always tell when he’s having a nightmare, can hear the soft thoughts of falling or blood or HYDRA or people, poking and prodding and watching, and then, soon after, a panicked mess of curses, and Bucky telling himself that it’s okay, it’s only a dream. Those nights are when Clint finds it hardest to avoid Bucky- he wants to go to him, to tell him it would be alright, but that would only make things worse. Bucky would get suspicious of Clint’s always-perfect timing, and he’d figure out what happened, and then he would never forgive Clint for getting inside his brain after everything that had happened.

So Clint still resolutely tries to ignore Bucky’s internal cussing at Steve’s dumbassery, and stares straight ahead at the screen until it clicks off, and Nat slides next to him on the couch.

“Aww, Dog Cops, no,” Clint whines. Nat raises an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Clint, you have been in your room for three days.”

“I got Lucky Charms this morning.” Lucky perks up at the sound of his name, and trots over to Natasha and flops down by her. 

“That doesn’t count,” Nat says, leaning down to pet Lucky. “You haven’t talked to anyone since the circus.”

“Past trauma?” Clint offers.

“Clint.” Nat stares him directly in the eyes. “Whatever’s going on, you need to get over it.”

Clint pouts at her. “But Nat-”

“Shh.” She says, cutting him off. “Come down. I think Tony’s showing Ricky Bobby to the team, can’t imagine why.”

“Dear baby Jesus-” Clint starts in a bad country accent.

Nat walks to the door. “Besides,” she says, smirking, “I think Bucky misses you.” And she slides out the door, gracefully closing it behind her, leaving Clint alone to his - and Bucky’s - thoughts.

He considers going down to join them. He really does. But then Bucky’s thoughts shift from normal unfocused chatter ( _I don’t understand this movie. Is this funny? I don’t...get it?_ )to a sharper, hopeful _Oh, Natalia’s coming back. I wonder if-- no, she’s alone. That’s okay. That’s probably okay._ And Clint doesn’t know if he’d be able to stand it. He doesn’t think he could look into Bucky’s eyes and hide a single thing from him.

They need to talk about this. Somewhere rattling around inside Clint’s head is some little...marble of rationality, and he knows he can’t keep reading Bucky’s thoughts without his consent. But Clint isn’t ready to have that talk. Not tonight.

Clint groans and drops his head onto the couch cushion. “Stop being an idiot,” he commands himself. “Stop being an idiot _right now_.” He scratches idly at Lucky’s neck and lets Bucky’s befuddled inner monologue lull him to sleep.

***

_Clint. CLINT. Open the door, Clint._

He wakes abruptly to the sound of someone shouting his name. Which is fucking stupid and also impossible, because he didn’t sleep with his aids in. But “fucking stupid and also impossible” is apparently the title of his autobiography, because Bucky’s voice is clanging around in his head, like it has been all week.

He grumpily stomps over to the door and flings it open, remembering too late that he specifically didn’t want to see Bucky because it’s too confusing.

Bucky steps into Clint’s apartment, wearing tight jeans and a tight t-shirt and a tight, unreadable expression on his face. He looks _good_ , and Clint is hit with a lot of emotions all at once. And that might be even more confusing.

“I’m here to update you on the circus mission,” Bucky signs hesitantly at the same time that his mind is screaming _He looks like a mess. Is he getting any rest? Is he eating enough? How the fuck do you sign ‘circus’? His cheekbones aren’t normally that prominent, are they? Shut up about his cheekbones. Stop looking at his cheekbones._

Nope, Clint was right before. The mind-reading thing is way more confusing. He idly signs the word for circus, using his fingers to honk an imaginary clown nose, before remembering that he shouldn’t answer questions no one has actually asked.

“Too early for this shit,” he mumbles. He turns his back and walks to the couch, covertly touching his cheekbones. They feel normal, right?

 _It’s almost noon_ Bucky’s thoughts follow him.

“What going on with the circus?” Clint asks, scooping up his aids and fitting them into his ears.

“We have another lead. We know they’re setting up another heist, and we know it’s going to be next week, but we don’t know the target yet.”

Bucky’s mouth looks good. Clint likes how it looks when he’s using it to say words. He liked the way it felt when they were kissing. He knows he’s probably being stupidly obvious, but he hasn’t seen Bucky in days, and he’s missed watching that mouth.

_Why does he keep looking at my mouth? Do I have food in my teeth?_

“You have to leave,” Clint blurts out. Bucky gives him a wounded look, and his mind-voice starts whirring like it’s gearing up to say something else that Clint absolutely cannot deal with, and - no. Nope. “You have to go right now.”

Bucky nods abruptly and gets to his feet, and his mind is a confusing blur of _What did I do? What did I-- Why can’t I just be normal? What am I doing wrong? Is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?_ And Clint needs Bucky to leave, that is absolutely non-negotiable, but he doesn’t want him to feel bad about it.

“I just,” Clint says, scrambling for any sort of excuse that sounds halfway reasonable. “I just really gotta pee.” What? Not that excuse, you dumbass. “Like, a lot.” Stop talking immediately, idiot. “You should go. Sorry.”

“Got it,” Bucky says sourly. “Don’t worry, pal. I’ll leave you alone.” He leaves, but his hurt feelings stay behind.

 

Clint didn’t really have to pee before, but once the idea’s in his mind, the need becomes urgent. He rushes to the bathroom and relieves himself, and then he stares in the mirror as he washes his hands.

“You’re an idiot,” he informs his reflection, like he didn’t already know.

He didn’t _want_ this. He imagines going back in time and never letting Bucky into his apartment. Or further back, to the circus. What if he never fell and hit his head? What if he never rescued--

Oh shit, of course. The guy in the cage. He should have put it together sooner, but he’s been a little preoccupied with all the Bucky-thoughts in his mind. But apparently the traditional payment for rescuing a creepy old dude that’s being held prisoner by a crime syndicate is _unwanted invasive telepathy_? What kind of motherfutzing dirtbag trickster gives someone _telepathy_ as a reward? Clint didn’t ask for that, and now things are so weird between him and Bucky, and Clint really, really wishes he was still here.

Almost immediately, a swirling portal opens in Clint’s ceiling and Bucky hurtles through, landing in the bathtub in an undignified belly-flop.

 _What the FUCK?_ Bucky’s voice is shouting inside Clint’s head.

“What the FUCK?” both Clint and Bucky’s voices are shouting out loud.

"…How did you get here?" Clint asks, watching as Bucky tries to get up, slipping and crashing down more than once. Clint never bothered to clean the bathtub after he gave Lucky a bath - it was enough work to get Lucky to not jump out and make a wet mess out of the whole bathroom and he is a busy man. Busy catching bad guys and avoiding Bucky and figuring out what the hell just happened.

"Fuck me if I know," Bucky mutters. He is still in the tub, but this time on his back. _Ow_. "Are you going to help me or what?" Oh yeah right, he should probably do that. Oops.

Without another word, Clint grabs his hand, successfully pulling him up, taking his other hand to stabilize him. A surprised sound escapes Bucky’s lips and he holds onto Clint as if he'd die without him. His feets start to drift apart from each other, nearly making him trip again. It would be funny, if Bucky wasn't still mad.

 _This wasn't what I thought holding hands with him would be like_. The words seem to echo in the bathroom, or maybe it's just his head. He really doesn't want to think about the meaning of Bucky’s words or how they make his heart jump right now. Or ever. Instead, he decides to act normal. Like his usual, totally responsible self. Clint decides to do something every average, functioning adult would probably stay away from doing and picks Bucky up to set him down next to him. 

_Woah, what the fuck._

Admittedly, Bucky is heavier than he thought and he is pretty sure something broke, because it fucking hurt, but it is worth seeing his completely flabbergasted face.

"Like that?" he asks, shit eating grin on his face. Bucky steps out of the room, avoiding him as much as possible, shooting angry glares at him. Clint follows him.

_That wasn't what I meant and he knows it. Him and his fucking cute smug grin. Asshole._

"Next time a warning would be nice." His voice is cold, but his eyes seem to smile just a little bit. Or is Clint imagining things? Either way, he is going to take what he gets.

_What happened? Why am I here again? Clint._

He winces, already knowing that Bucky is going to ask him questions he can't answer but it will look like he can but he can't and this doesn't help his guilt he remembers he has and-

"What did you do this time." It isn't a question - it's an order to answer _now_.

 

"I... don't know?" he replies truthfully. "It's not my fault this time," he adds quickly.

_Of course it's not. What kind of problem did he get himself into this time?_

Clint can nearly see his eye roll, but his face stays stoic. Impressive. He wants to respond to these thoughts, but keeps his protest down. It wouldn't do any good, he just knows it.

"What. Did. You. Do," Bucky repeats, staring Clint down with a merciless glare. Clint scratches his neck, debating whether or not he should tell him about the weird guy in the cage. _He knows something._

Clint would even try to lie to him, if Bucky didn't have this incredible lie-detector that always seems to tell him when someone lies. Especially when it's him, but, unsurprisingly, it also works with Steve and sometimes even Nat. 

One of the reasons it felt so bad kicking him out - ignoring the whole liking his presence and feeling bad about not telling him the whole telepathy thing - is that, weirdly enough, he didn't call him out on his behavior, neither in words or in thoughts. Which means he trusted his words, which was a bad decision, really. 

If Bucky manages to trust him, even though it is such a blatant lie, then maybe, just maybe, he should also trust Bucky and tell him a story that sounds super made up?

"Okay, so this sounds super weird, but listen. I have no idea if it is even connected to anything but it could be. Did you ever watch Aladdin?" 

_Did I ever watch... why is he asking me this? What does this have to do with anything? He’s completely lost his mind; I should just leave._

Clint grabs Bucky’s shirt like a toddler who just lost his mom and looks at him with his best kicked puppy impression. "Did you, yes or no? It's really important!" Bucky sighs. 

_I sure hope it is. I swear to God, he is like a little kid sometimes. Screw that, he is always like that. I hate it. Fuck. What was the movie called again? Aladdin?_

"No," he says out loud, shaking his head. "I don't think so. Why are you asking me-" Clint interrupts him, he knows what he wants to say anyways, so why should he listen to him say it again?

"Have you ever heard of a genie?"

“I’m sorry, a _what?_ ” _What is he thinking now? Talking about magical nonsense._

Clint sighs. “I _know_ this sounds crazy. Buuuuut…” He pauses and winces. “How can I say this so that it sounds as normal as possible.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at him, confused. _This had better be good, this is so strange, what-_

Clint cuts off Bucky’s thoughts. “Fine. Circus, wrinkly man, traditional payment, sumth’n about wishes, and now magic.”

“I… Clint.” Bucky sighs and shakes his head. “You are making no sense right now.” _What kind of explanation is this? Clint, you’re such a fucking disaster._

“I… okay,” Clint says, resigning himself. “Here we go.”

“While we were at the circus, there was this… tiny, messed up little… man? I’m not sure?” _And your point?_ “He was in a cage. And I couldn’t just leave him there!” _Of course you couldn’t._ “So I got him out, and he said something about the traditional payment, but I wasn’t listening, you know.” _Payment. Always a bad sign._ (Clint has to restrain himself to keep from mumbling _shut up_ at that.) “And he just disappeared. So, of course, I got into position, but then…” 

And he can’t say it. He can’t. And his doubts are joined by Bucky, _and what happened? There’s a but. Of course there is. Is this where he fell?_

“Clint?” Bucky is surprisingly gentle, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And then what happened?”

Clint took a deep breath. “And then I heard you. Over the comms. And I don’t even remember what you said, but I just… wished I knew what you were thinking.” His eyes widen. “Oh no, did that just double it-”

“Clint.” _You adorable dumbass._ “Focus. You’re fine.”

“The thing is… it worked? I can hear your thoughts now!” Clint makes jazz hands. “Yay?”

“I… I’m sorry, _what?_ ” 

“I can hear your thoughts. All the time.”

Bucky looks at Clint with disbelief, then confusion, then a touch of indignance. His mind was going crazy, thoughts all over the place, nothing coherent for more than a few moments. 

He finally sighs. “I guess worse things have happened to me.”

“Aw, Bucky, no,” Clint says, clinging to his arm. “I swear I didn’t mean to do it! I would never intrude on you like this on purpose!”

 _I know, Clint._ “It’s just a little strange.” _And then… the bathroom thing must have been-_

“Another wish, yeah.” He winces at Bucky’s surprised face. “Sorry! Intruding on your thoughts! I didn’t mean to-” He stops when Bucky clears his throat. “Right. Um, I didn’t want to be intruding on you, so I kinda kicked you out? But then I felt bad, and I wished… that you were here. In my head! I didn’t know that it would happen! But it did! So… yeah.”

“Funny that both your wishes were about me,” Bucky smirks. _Funny that I had no say in them, either._

“Aw! Bucky! No! This is totally my fault, I’m sure I can wish this away, right!” Clint doesn’t exactly _hate_ hearing Bucky’s thoughts, but-

“Wait,” Bucky says. “Maybe you could make it up to me.” _You probably still have wishes, don’t you?_

“Yeah, probably? I don’t know how this works,” Clint says, and winces again. “Sorry. Telepathy.”

“Hmm…” Bucky says. _How about we say you owe me one? One wish?_

“One wish?” Clint says. “That doesn’t seem fair, I’ve done so much to you, and-”

“That’s what I’m taking Clint,” Bucky smiles. “One wish.”

“Okay then,” Clint says. “Name it.”

There's a brief flash of triumph in Bucky's eyes, but it's quickly replaced by doubt along with a flood of his thoughts that are almost tripping over each other, they're going so fast. 

_Would he even offer if he knew - I can't ask for - can't fuckin' coerce - bad as Hydra - wish he'd just_ talk _to me -_

His gray eyes catch on Clint's wince, and there's a loud curse that echoes through Clint's skull before Bucky clears his throat, his cheeks going a dull red. 

"Guess you heard that, huh?" 

"Heard," Clint agrees, reaching up to rub at his ear reflexively, even though they had nothing to do with the flood of noise. "Still working on the understanding part. For a quiet guy you've sure got a lot going on in your head." 

Bucky looks down, his face deliberately blank. After a second he meets Clint's eyes again and shrugs one shoulder. 

"I was just getting used to having my head to myself again." 

Clint kinda feels it like a body blow, his shoulders hunching reflexively, head ducked and hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck.

"I know what it's - I mean, it sure as hell wasn't seventy years, I'm not trying to - there were just certain similarities, and -" 

"Maybe I shoulda wished to understand what the hell goes on in _your_ head," Bucky says, and when Clint looks up his mouth has quirked up at the corner, just a little. 

"I know what it's like, having someone else in your head," Clint says. "That's why I've been hiding out in here, I was trying to minimize the damage, maybe drown it out with Dog Cops where I could."

"Dog Cops." Bucky folds his arms across his chest, leans back against the wall, and his smile is kinda ironic but at least it's there. "I've changed my mind, I don't want inside your head." 

"Sergeant Whiskers is an excellent role model, for your information," Clint protests, "and you could learn valuable lessons from that show." 

It's not words, this time, not quite an image - more like an impression of how Bucky is seeing him, engaged and energetic and grinning, layered with a complexity of emotions that Clint isn't sure he ought to try to untangle. Judging from how quickly it goes away, it wasn't something Bucky had intended him to see. Clint tucks his hands into his armpits, hunches a little to make himself seem smaller and meets Bucky's eyes. 

"Sorry," he says. "You wanted to talk?" 

It's the worst possible moment for the lights to flash, for a blaring alarm to announce some kinda threat, so, of course, it's the precise moment they do. The flashing blue and red make everything strange, cast the open expression on Bucky's face in unfamiliar light; it makes him look like someone who _could_ be kissed, maybe, not just when halfway dreaming in the middle of the night, and Clint has taken an idiot step forward before his brain catches up to what his body ought to do. 

He races to grab his favorite bow from the corner by the front door, shoves his way through, and follows after the endless trail of curses spilling from Bucky's head. 

***

"It's very quiet," Steve says, wary, and Bucky's brain adds _we're hunting wabbits_ ; he turns to give Clint a conspiratorial look when Clint can't quite hold in his snort. 

"Sorry, Cap," he says, shamefaced, when Steve sends him a disapproving look, and he isn't overly surprised when he's sent off to explore the perimeter while the rest of them investigate the warehouse. It's certainly the kind of place the Circus has always favored - high ceilings, room enough for criminal choreography, and a few secure offices where the Ringmaster can store the take. They wouldn't have left the place empty like this, though, not if it's still in use, and Clint isn't expecting them to find much. 

He nocks an arrow, just on the off chance, and starts on a circuit around the warehouse, noting the fairly recent tire tracks, the circular imprints where barrels had been. A scrape against concrete has him on high alert, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when a huge rat skitters across the walkway in front of him. He's grateful Bucky can't read _his_ thoughts, right now, 'cos whatever they were they were probably high-pitched. 

In the back of his head he can hear the low murmur of Bucky's thoughts, bored and a little frustrated and providing a truly hilarious commentary of Steve's attempts to make Tony behave; Clint gets so caught up in it all that the dart in the back of his shoulder is the first sign he notices that they aren't alone. 

It’s the last chance he has to notice much of anything for a while. 

When he opens his eyes, it is as if he's never closed them, because everything is pitch black. For a moment he’s scared he’s gone blind, but, in the next, he realizes that it’s probably just dark. Really dark and really cold.

He tries getting up, but his hands are tied behind his back. Looking to his sides, he realizes he’s alone. 

Alone in a mysterious place without a clue what time it is. Great, a perfect ending for a peaceful monday.. At least the chair is relatively comfy, so he has that going for him. Hurrah, that makes him feel a lot better. Not. Even when he uses force, the rope keeps him in place. He's not risking his wrists just to escape. Sorry, not sorry, arrows don't shoot themselves.

He sighs and tries to hear something, anything really. But either he is alone or, if someone else _is_ here, they are really quiet. Tony promised him that those hearing aids are the best he can make and he trusts Tony. At least in that regard. 

"Hello?" Clint asks the air around him. It's not like he can hide - his kidnapper (or kidnappers?) know where he is. "Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?" He knows he sounds kind of pathetic, but he can't help feeling, well, helpless. At least he can usually see his surroundings or something and his world isn't just a black nothingness.

A bright light blinds him, and he closes his eyes, the after picture still way too clear in his head. "What the fuck?!"

Someone stands in the light, a dark silhouette in front of him, too far to see who exactly it is, but too close to ignore.

He groans. The Ringmaster. The person he wanted to see the most. Just great. 

"What do you want?" he asks, already more annoyed than anything. 

"Me? Why would you think that I want something from a traitor?" The voice sounds insulted, but Clint has dealt with enough people like him. 

"You, holding me hostage? Check. You, making a dramatic entrance? Check. You, trying to seem uninterested? Check. I'd use my fingers to count for you, but, you know." He wiggles with his butt, showing how little he can move.

"You, being an idiot as always? Check," the person in front of him mocks him, but Clint just rolls with his eyes. Like he hasn't heard _that_ one before. 

"Is that the best you could come up with? If so, please don't proceed and just kill me now." The Ringmaster laughs, an unpleasant, dark sound filling the room. Clint makes quiet little gagging sounds, not expecting him to take notice of them anyway. "I’ll tell you something," he says instead, just like he predicted. "You get what belongs to you in exchange for what belongs to us. After that, both of us go our own ways, and we'll never have to see each other again. Do we have a deal?" The Ringmaster smiles at him, his eyes just a little bit too dark and his grin just a little bit too wide.

"I don't have anything that ‘belongs to you’. Even if I did, you probably stole it anyway," Clint retorts, huffing.

"Oh? You don't remember? How curious. Well, how about I remind you of what you stole?" He claps two times and red lights color a little stage which Clint couldn't see until now. Purple smoke makes it impossible for him to see what the henchmen try to present to him - seriously, couldn't they have thought of better tricks, like, _come on_ \- but he nearly gasps when he does. 

On the small stage is an even smaller cage, something moving and groaning inside, like a wild animal or… a human? He hears his thoughts before he sees him.

"Bucky?" “So. What do you think?”

“You son of a- Why?” Clint screams.

“You took something of ours, something we had been… working with, for a while,” the Ringmaster says, circling around Clint’s chair. “And now we have reason to believe that you have something valuable that we want. And I’m sure you would be perfectly willing to exchange it for him.”

 _Clint. I’m-_ Clint only gets little grasps of thought through bursts of internal screaming. He can’t block it out, there’s just pain and agony and screaming. _I’m fine! They- they’ll rescue us- there’s no reason- to give them-_

“I see you’ve already used up some of your ‘payment’. A pity.” The Ringmaster says, looking down on Clint. “However, what we need only requires what you have left.” 

“What are you even- I don’t even know what this is! I don’t know what I did, what even-”

“You do tend to ramble, don’t you.” Clint can hear more screaming from Bucky’s head and looks over to see him trembling, hunched over in the cage. One of the henchmen holds up an electrified whip and snaps it against the bars of the cage. Clint can practically feel Bucky’s pain as the electricity shoots across the bars, stinging Bucky every time it hits him in the too small space. 

“What do you want!”

“You see, that _thing_ you released cost me thousands of dollars. They told me it would grant me wishes, but it just stood there. It did _nothing,_ ” he hisses. “And then _you_ come along and rob me of millions. You open up that cage, and, suddenly, my opportunity is gone. Somehow, _you_ ended up getting what _I_ needed.”

The Ringmaster cracks his neck, and Clint winces when he hears the whip crack to his side. “So. I think you owe me a little something.”

“I still have no idea what you’re asking for,” Clint says. He feels around his restraints, but none of them are within an easy reaching distance. He mentally checks all his possible hidden weapon spots, but he feels a distinct absence of any knives or guns. He wiggles his wrists in the restraints, hoping they’ll give, but nothing happens.

“You’re not leaving anytime soon,” the Ringmaster says. There’s more screaming from Bucky, and this time Clint can’t hear the difference between the screams in his head and the screams heard by everyone. The Ringmaster leans in close to him. “You have one more wish,” he says, “and you’re going to give it to _me_.”

Clint’s eyes widen for half a second, but he quickly masks his expression. ”I’m not giving you anything,” he says, glaring at him. 

“Really?” The Ringmaster asks. The whip cracks again, and Clint can feel the pain seeping into his mind. “Because you’re making someone very dear to you suffer.” It cracks again, and Clint feels nothing but the electricity jumping through the air, the screams in his head, the pain.

“I… I made a promise,” Clint says. “I’m not gonna break it. Especially not for _you_.”

“Not even for him?” The Ringmaster asks, grabbing Clint’s head and turning it so that he had no choice to stare directly at him, the whip swinging over, and over, and over, and over…

“I… I’m only doing this for him,” Clint says. He wiggles his feet around in the chair, looking for a grip on the ground. He manages to push himself up and swings the chair around onto the Ringmaster, knocking him over, but he’s immediately pushed over by a henchman, who had been standing behind him. His head crunches on the ground, and he blacks out just as the whip cracks over the cage one more time.

*

Clint groans as he wakes, the relative comfort of the chair replaced with cold concrete and, somewhere, the distant drip of water. Thirst sweeps over him - sudden and inescapable and difficult to think past - and he groans and opens his eyes. 

A pair of bright, unnaturally blue eyes stare right back into his, and Clint yelps and pushes himself backwards, scraping his arm against the rough concrete floor. 

"Ah," says the little creature, cross-legged and casual about it. "You're awake." 

Clint looks around at the lack of windows, the heavy door, and then back at his fellow captive. 

"If they've got you again," he croaks, then clears his throat hard and tries again. "If they've got you then does that mean they've let Bucky go?" 

The creature rolls its eyes and taps on the wall, its fingers long and spindly and _going straight through the solid brick_ , holy _shit_. 

"They don't got me," it says, flatly, and Clint shoves himself a little more upright, the pounding in his head making his vision fuzzy for a second. 

"If you coulda just -" his voice comes out as a snarl, furious beyond the fucking telling of it that this all coulda been avoided, that Bucky hadn't had to - 

Shit, _Bucky._ Clint closes his eyes, the better to focus on listening for some trace of Bucky's thoughts in his head, but he can’t - there isn’t - 

There’s nothing there. 

The noise he makes is incoherent and agonized, and he’s on his feet before he knows it, the dizziness and pain combining to have him swallowing hard, one hand braced on the wall, so he doesn't throw up. 

"He's alive," the creature says, watching him curiously, and Clint closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, not questioning how the creature knows it, just choosing to cling to the certainty in its voice, 'cos otherwise he isn't sure he can keep going. He isn't sure he’d still be able to breathe. "He's unconscious."

"Why the hell did you get me into this?" Clint says. "Why - if you can push your hand through the fucking wall, why -" 

"Iron," it tells him, clambering to its feet. "It doesn't agree with my kind. They did their research." 

"And what the hell is 'your kind'?" 

The thing regards him, its head cocked to one side, and there’s a moment where the world isn't quite as it was, a silver glow around the edges, and there’s a moment where the creature is tall and beautiful and unearthly and unkind. 

The moment ends, and the creature stands before him again, ancient and wrinkled and faintly amused. 

"The kind that considers three wishes the usual payment, and that can't abide cold iron," it says. "Don't hurt yourself trying to think it through." 

"Three wishes," Clint says. "So, what, I've got two left?” 

"Don't get greedy," it says, regarding him coolly. "You used two. But the one you have left is certainly enough to get you out of this room and on your way to rescuing your handsome prince." 

“But I - I promised one to Bucky -“ 

“And he would use it to wish the both of you free, no doubt?” 

"Right," Clint says. "Right, yeah, I wish -" 

He hesitates, a stone in his gut. 

"I can't wish myself out of this," he says softly. "I - " he pats at his pockets, hopelessly, knowing there’s no way he'd kept his picks. "I can - there's gotta be a way." 

"Wishing," the thing says, examining its tiny nails. "You have a wish, I'd rather not wait around for you to decide on another, your Bucky is - "

 _Fuck_. _Clint?_ Distant. Miserable. Barely coherent, and accompanied with a wave of pain that makes Clint whine in the back of his dry throat. More than anything he wants this thing to go both ways, so he can reassure Bucky somehow. Make him not feel so fucking hopeless, in the back of Clint's head. 

"I can't wish my way out," he says, decisive. "I _can't_. Bucky is the most private person I know, I can't keep invading his head like this, I gotta wish for it to be gone." 

The creature rolls its eyes again. 

"You're not very bright, are you?" it says. "If three wishes is the usual payment, then what's the usual way to break curses?" 

"Look, I wish I could escape the room _and_ break the curse, obviously, but -" 

The creature's eyes flash iridescent blue, and it snaps its fingers and vanishes, the door creaking open behind where it'd been. 

Clint blinks at the open door before him. Okay, Barton, snap out of it. Time to go rescue Bucky and convince him to wish away your accidental mind invasion skills and kick the bad guys’ asses and break a curse, apparently, whatever that even means.

He takes a few steps forward and winces, mentally cataloguing which ribs feel fractured and which of his ligaments feel stretched, and then he receives a new transmission from Bucky’s brain, another bright burst of pain with rage starting to bleed in around the edges, and Clint needs to stop dicking around and find him _now_.

“I’m coming,” Clint mutters under his breath, starting to run as he feels Bucky’s rage blossom into something murderous and wordless and uncontainable. “Hang on, I’m coming for you.”

Maybe this is the moment. Maybe this is when he swoops in out of nowhere like a prince from a fairytale, slaying the beasts and rescuing the captured princess, and then they both live happily ever after. Maybe this is the cinematic gesture that tells Bucky everything he feels for him, without Clint ever actually having to formulate his thoughts into words or communicate like an adult.

So it’s all rather anticlimactic when Clint follows the sound of fighting and bursts into the room to find a pile of groaning circus henchmen semi-conscious on the floor while Bucky patrols them with a glare, efficiently cleaning the blood from between the joints of his metal fingers.

Right. Bucky doesn’t need saving. He’s literally a superhero badass killing machine, and this is not a fairytale. 

“Clint.”

He hears it out loud, with a softer, more hesitant echo inside his mind. Bucky’s speech is a statement, and his thoughts are a question.

“I’m here to rescue you,” Clint says with a weak smile. “Tada?”

“I already rescued me, and I called for backup,” Bucky says. His eyes scan Clint’s body methodically. _At least two fractured ribs, and he’s limping. Nasty cut on his forehead, but it looks superficial. He’s fine. He’s_ fine _._

“I’m fine,” Clint confirms softly. “Are you fine?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says tiredly. “Am I? You’ve been reading my thoughts for weeks now, and I keep trying to figure out what you would have overheard that I didn’t want you knowing about, except every time I do that, you can read _those_ thoughts, and how are we ever gonna--”

_Be together like this?_

“You still have a wish,” Clint reminds him, ignoring the way his heart is rabbiting in his chest, every beat sounding out the words _be together, be together, be together_. “You can wish me out of your head right now. You can wish us all back to weeks ago. Shit, you might be better off wishing you never met me.”

“That’s not what I want,” Bucky says firmly. “You can’t tell me how to use my wish. It’s mine.”

“I know. You’re right,” Clint says. “You can use it however you want, whenever you want. Doesn’t have to be today. You don’t even have to tell me when you use it.”

Bucky’s thoughts glide tentatively into Clint’s mind, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like an onslaught he didn’t ask for. It feels like an invitation, like Bucky’s trying to share something with him. And Bucky is thinking about the time they kissed in the dark. They never talked about it, and Clint wasn’t convinced Bucky even remembered, but Bucky is remembering now, and Clint feels it the way Bucky felt it. Every bit of hesitation and uncertainty and protectiveness and desire that coursed through Bucky is being projected to him now, and it’s too much. Bucky couldn’t have felt that way about Clint then, and he can’t still feel this way now, but Clint can _feel_ it, and so it must be true.

“What--?”

Clint can barely get the word out before Bucky looks him in the eye from across the room and sets his shoulders and thinks with perfect, crystal-clear precision, _I wish you would kiss me again_.

“Idiot,” Clint grumbles to himself as he starts walking across the room to get to Bucky. “Stupid idiot waste of a wish, you didn’t have to wish that, I would’ve just--”

_Get here, get here, get here._

And when Clint finally reaches him, there is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He looks down at Bucky, cradles his hopeful face in his steady hands, and then he leans down and kisses him.

Almost immediately, Bucky’s hands go to Clint’s hips, and he winces when Bucky grazes a tender spot on his side.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky is murmuring against his mouth.

“No sorry. More kissing,” Clint mutters, nudging his nose against Bucky’s and capturing his plush lower lip with a sharp nip of his teeth. He’s thought about this so many times, but this is better because it’s actually happening. He’s really kissing Bucky because it was something Bucky wanted, too, and--

 

Bucky isn’t thinking anything.

“Hey,” Clint says, pulling back with a frown. “Anyone home in there?”

“What’s that mean?”

“I can’t hear your thoughts. Also,” he says, looking down in surprise to see his legs wrapped around Bucky’s torso, “when did you pick me up?”

Which, of course, is the minute that back-up finally arrives.

*

And so that’s it, then. They foiled the bad guys’ plan, but, of course, the Ringmaster escaped, and they’ll have to face him again someday. Clint can’t read Bucky’s thoughts anymore, which is great. And now Clint and Bucky kiss every chance they get, which is extra, extra great. Clint doesn’t like not having an explanation, but, sometimes, that’s just life as an Avenger.

He’s standing by the coffee machine one morning, glaring at the slow, teasing way the coffee is trickling into his chosen drinking vessel (the entire pot), when Steve and Bucky come into the room, sweaty and happy and clearly back from a training session.

“Hiya, doll,” Bucky murmurs, dropping a kiss to Clint’s forehead on his way towards the fridge.

“It’s too early for _hiya_ ,” Clint grumbles, but he turns his attention away from the coffee long enough to watch Bucky fill a glass of water and down it with three powerful swallows of his stupidly muscled throat. Bucky flashes him a grin when he’s done and then saunters out of the room, presumably (hopefully) in search of a shower.

“It’s cute,” Steve says. “How gone you are for each other.”

“We’re taking it slow,” Clint lies, looking back at his coffee. “We’re just buddies who kiss sometimes.”

“Whatever you want to call it, it’s nice to see the two of you together. You both deserve a little happiness.”

“Whatever.” Clint’s pot is finally full, and he grabs it from the machine and greedily takes a huge gulp, immediately burning his tongue. Betrayed by his best friend. “I wish you could make coffee that was the perfect temperature as soon as it was done brewing.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Steve says. “You never know who’s listening.”

“What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Just something my ma used to say when I was growing up.”

“So you know about wishes and curses and all of that?”

“I guess?” Steve says, scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, can I have some of that coffee?”

“No. Wait, hey, how do you break a curse?”

Steve narrows his eyes. “Is this hypothetical, or are you cursed?”

“Hypothetical.” Sort of. Technically.

“Lots of ways,” Steve says thoughtfully. “There are some spells. You can burn different herbs. True love’s kiss. Drink special teas.”

Steve keeps listing things, but Clint isn’t listening anymore. Because. Because.

The telepathy went away when he kissed Bucky.

Does he love Bucky?

Does Bucky love him?

This sounds like something that is going to require actually formulating his thoughts into words and communicating like an adult.

He allows himself one final, piteous _aw, feelings, no_. And then he imagines what it would mean to be with Bucky, to really _be_ with him this time, for them both to know how the other felt and for the two of them to be a team working towards the same goal. The goal of actually being together, like a semi-functional couple.

Clint smiles. And then he starts planning how he’s going to tell Bucky.


	2. Chapter 2




End file.
